Brandy had been spared the task of leading local authorities to the site of Simon’s grave—his 'alleged' grave. Oscar had done that. The whole ordeal, in fact, had reached its sorry end. Now, as she drove back alone toward Tucson, her thoughts were bent on collecting her things, dropping off Simon’s at the Bureau of Missing Persons, then heading out of town, out of state, as soon as possible. Bound for…? Anywhere. No place in particular. Back to LA, maybe; it hardly mattered. Jodi, of course, had pleaded with her to stay. But somehow Jodi’s spell (if indeed she had ever cast one) had lost its influence. Brandy wanted closure—of theirs and the whole affair… Simon’s memory nagging like an unsolved riddle. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ Did she believe that? Several recent events cast serious doubts—her coming to the desert in the first place prime among the absurdities. On what pretext? On whose recommendation? In retrospect it all seemed rather… vague… almost forced. She felt like a misused puppet with gone-slack strings. Still, only a week had passed. She could resume her old job, move back in with Barbara; life would only have suffered a momentary lapse… But retreating seemed an insufficient answer—in lieu of the answer. Simon was more than a passing flight of imagination. Brandy felt his presence (since his absence) grow more and more profound. Even during her torturous hike out of the canyon (his semen dribbling out of her in a gluey stream of tears), Simon's ‘physical’ loss offset by his ‘psychic’ perseverance. Spiritually, psychologically, he stayed near. Jodi had noticed it. As had Oscar. Both remarked a difference in Brandy’s general demeanor, claimed her very appearance had somehow changed—though neither could explain exactly how. As for Brandy’s own opinion things seemed identical… except for random replays of their unprotected sex; her membranes still constricted on occasion with palpable repercussions… sometimes to the point of actual pangs… orgiastic interludes odd and unsettling. Brandy needed time—and distance—to sort things out. As she drove along the highway a bump caused her to glance at the passenger-side seat. There, where Jodi had placed them (for keepsakes) were the His-and-Her cups she and Simon had made… alongside his magic slate, the last word he had written still scrawled across its surface: Later ‘My present!’ Brandy had forgotten the unopened gift. Suddenly it—whatever "it" might be—was the key to what confounded her: why her path, with Simon’s, had crossed (had collided), then left her so bereaved yet strangely self-possessed. ‘Ridiculous.’ Dismissing the idea, she nonetheless kept a heavy foot on the Volkswagen's gas pedal.
At last the road was smooth and reasonably straight. Brandy soon was back at the Adobe Motel, Number Eight standing sequestered as ever—a bit forbidding, she thought, on pulling up the drive. She rolled to a stop, got out of her car, crossed to the womb-like threshold, turned the key with impatience, then suddenly paused—overcome by a nameless twinge of uncertainty. Shaking it off, she enter, and was quickly re-enveloped by the bungalow's calm. There, atop the coffee table, right where they had left it, sat her present … wrapped in silver paper… powder-blue bow… no card. Its isolation both enticed and raised new apprehensions. No longer in a hurry, Brandy busied herself with gathering her possessions… which she packed carefully… taking more time than was necessary… satisfied to linger in the space they once had shared; their clothes still hung in the bathroom—garments dry and wrinkled like age-old friends. After carrying Simon’s backpack, then her luggage, out to the parking lot and stowing them in the car, Brandy returned. The light within, by contrast, was soft and dim. She sat on the floor beside the coffee table, reached for the gift-wrapped package, laid it in her lap, then took a deep breath… waiting for her heart to stop its pounding. Finally, with reverent care, she untied the ribbon … shed the pretty paper… revealing a white container, a jeweler’s box of sturdy cardboard… whose lid made an intimate "phluph" sound as she lifted it… peeked inside… the contents still obscured by a layer of cotton batting… which Brandy pinched and lightly plucked aside… uncovering herself (or herself in reflection) as bounced back from the surface of a tiny cheval mirror… its setting (cast in bronze) depicting a curious little monkey, whose upraised arms and forepaws formed the boundary of its frame… into which she gazed for an unfixed time… … then, removing the artifact, Brandy set it on the table, and holding it securely by its ornamental base, turned it with her finger to rotate the glass… its opposite side again reflecting her… and yet not quite her.
A trick of light, or were her eyes now brown?
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